I've done my damndest to rip a reader's nerves to rags, I don't want him satisfied.

These too are of a burning color--not orange, not gold, but if pure gold were liquid and could raise a cream, that golden cream might be like the color of the poppies.

When a condition or a problem becomes too great, humans have the protection of not thinking about it. But it goes inward and minces up with a lot of other things already there and what comes out is discontent and uneasiness, guilt and a compulsion to get something--anything--before it is all gone.

Must the hunger become anger and the anger fury before anything will be done?

In utter loneliness a writer tries to explain the inexplicable.

Well, I remember this girl. I am not whole without her. I am not alive without her. When she was with me I was more alive than I have ever been, and not only when she was pleasant either. Even when we were fighting I was whole.

We are lonesome animals. We spend all life trying to be less lonesome.